Vdg Iv - The Spid Kitchen’s Ash.

11/2/2009

VDG#4

THE SPID KITCHEN’S ASH.

COLLE COLLECTED WORDS. CTED WORDS. PEREIRA

PAUL

The Spid Spider's web down the spine, forcing ink out of crevices. Spider remembers grandmother seaweed, feeding the neurotic boy green tea. Spider's egg hatching in abundance, baby white things scuttling to freedom. This is the spider story. Southwest of the SLUTTER GUTT refugee city, is the spider's cave. Located in the top floor of the cinema de broken daa I have heard of the spider stories and the need to search for its eggs, for some reclusive cure for a master back home in tech heart of the GUTT, has led me to its infamous cave. Now it shall be proven, those stories. I will see first hand the cast of spiders. "take no extra tunic, wear no sandals." the master told me between coughs of blood. Like Jesus, he reiterated the process of the apostles. I wore boots instead. He didn;t say 'wear no boots and didn't specify barefootedness.We must improvise the advices. So i crunch down the road, shivering without the spare tunic (for clothes were sparse in the GUTT) and the river of spit was colder than normal. No bitter moon cast its light so I couldn't tell of the season. My prophecy birds had gone ahead and reported no death or killing moon so It was safer to travel. Praying between road markers that the master won't die before i return, I contemplate the shrine of the spiders. they had saved whatever was left of humanity once. This i heard from the stories of the first refugees. The female spiders were highly sexual and wanted to save the children, to have fangoria sex with them. It wasn't horror, from what the children explained after the sex. it was liberating. They died though (the spiders and children) right after they had given birth (the spiders) the eggs were elixir like. Swallowed bitterly during the suicide moons, so that none would be plunged off the breathing buildings. Master wouldn't want to kill himself but he was dying. The eggs would rebuild his

collapsing organs. The spiders will spin a new fate for him. It was up to me to bring the eggs back. Before they hatched. But the path was distorted. The way disturbed. Ghost ravens were flocking up ahead. A sign. An omen. I shivered fromsomething else. Time for self burial. Suddenly. I dropped t o my belly and slithered like a snake to the side of the path. Already some strange piercing wind was ravaging 2 feet above ground. My back got cut a little, thin tunic torn. Reaching the hot sands, I dug with bloodied hands (The winds thin the air, cracks the skin quickly.) Hurting, I dug like a tomcat. Enough for my upper body to crawl in. Held my breath. Half buried myself (lessen the body heat emissions so that whatever was riding the winds would not pick up my stench. And eat me. Dust entered my lungs, I fought not the cough. Then i heard the thundering of hooves above. Reaper men. It's all fucked now. The prophet birds reported no reaper men. Some bastard portal must've opened without warning. i cried. I heard the dogs. The dogs have come. Their howling were closer. Warm piss seeped and splashed unto the mound i was hiding under. The stench psychedelic. But protective. Thank Debris, thank debris, my mind reeled and mantra'd. Timeless. Horror. I wet myself. Cum and piss and blood. Sickness came. fever came. Everything came. Then went. Then silence. Lizard angels told me to recover. Out dug myself, smelling of acrid piss. Coughed out sand and stone. Looked due east. Spat in my palm, rubbed it in my eye, stared east. Already i saw teh funeral flags raised. My heart sank.

The reaper men had taken the city. Most of the elders with it. Counted seven flags. Mystical deaths. There was no point going to the spider cave. But there was no more point going back either. It was then, i decided, to choose another initiation. And since I've always wondered, about being a spider child, i decided to follow on the path, to find my way to the web world of the Spid.

THE KITCHEN CONTINUUM The flesh smiles, a sweet sick child and the factory trembles. In the workshops, floors above, the machines groan, a noise seeking attention. The child shivers and i tell her it's alright. She'll get better. Don't be afraid. The light outside wants to break in, but it will blind her, yet set me free. liberation can wait. She still has to see, to describe to me the heavens in her mind. Her flesh smiles, a sickly sweet woman. She ages so fast in this industrial temple, decayed by the hunger it feeds on. "the garden is how you make it." "Adam, forgets," She whispers, "The creatures have not been named." The machine above growls, a protest, an invitation to deconstruct. It wants us to live, it wishes our bones to merge with wires and veins but she is calling out to sea as I am called to the light. the mech won;t have its day. Chains begin dragging on the floors above. T hey descend, to find us. "Eve forgets Adam, for he was a fool not to save her." That's the sign. Gingerly, I carry her, a growing but deteriorating frame. I carry her down to the vacant canteen. memories of food will feed her. She'll get better. I put her on the metal table, like a sacrifice. Whatever cold air was left in the walk in fridge was released as i open the door, like a final breath. She inhales. Smiles. She remembers. She thaws and perspires. Drink up the droplets. Eternal juices. I kiss her. taste her love. "the Father forgives you, and so does the snake." This reassures me. I know i'm on the right path. The light above wants to arrive here. I believe it is time. "Dream of apples, my love." I tell her, as i slowly wrap her in plastic sarans. Kiss

her forehead. Touch her lips. She smells of fruits and gasoline. She reminds me of childhood. There is metal banging on glass outside. The chains are here. The light is above. Slowly streaming in through the sliding sunscreen. I kiss her eyes. she smiles at me and speaks. "The Tree of Life forgets no name but you must leave my name here." "I know." I tell her. one tear falling, seeding the flower. It grows as she fades. "There is a fire." She says softly. looking astray. "And There is a flame," i whisper back. Then the light comes. The chains come. The glass breaks and the kitchen, continuums.

THE BREAST COLLECTOR PT 1 We had to hide in the dumpster to escape the breast collector. Rather the rats than 'IT' A horrible masked entity with a box full of tits instead of a chest. We couldn't tell if the breasts were real. There was no blood flooding the transparent box. NO severance marks. It was too weird to hang around out to find out. The fucker had no arms too, so we don't know how he could've collected the things. Maybe it was It's organs, breathing apparatus that looked like tits. It had a weird demon head where its crotch was supposed to be. Zip marks for eyes and mouth, like a BDSM practitioner. It made this humming sound as it crunched past us. We suspected it was a robot for a while but its lion tail was swishing too naturally. It had a huge heart shaped fixture on its ass. like a cushion? My lover plans to draw a picture of it. If she can get over the nightmare. Or was it a nightmare when we had met it? I can't tell really. Reality and dreams. it's all the same here in SLUTETR GUTT. CONCLUSION After the dumpster incident, we returned to the hole. A ghost moon was rising so my lover had to blindfold herself. I was already used to the apparitions so i chose to start a fire to keep us warm through the night. The table number 2 was already rotting so i used it as firewood. I left the first table for her to write and draw the breast collector. We had to spread the news of its existence to the other communities in the Gutt. In case they too had the misfortune to come across it, they'll know what to do. Find a dumpster. With rats. To hide. The stench would mask the body heat somehow. That was at least how we escaped. EDIT: Lover wet herself again, shivering. It was no use telling her it's alright. She was paranoid still. Her drawing of the collector was acute. I guess that made it harder for her to forget the thing. At this juncture I must mention this. I am cursed. I cannot write or draw. Even as i report this, it is she who is reluctantly typing out

these words. I did not force her. She knows it is her duty. EDIT: This is me, the lover. I have no choice in this matter. No one else can write or draw for us. My father NULL is a great lover. Morality here is skewed. We are not sick. It is this world we live in that is sick. We make do with whatever lusts we have. Its the only way for us to live. EDIT END: This is NULL. I write to you through my daughter/love child to warn you of an entity, called the Breast collector. Image of it is found in the maggotzine. I appeal to you to study it well, so you can recognize it a way off. My girl had the opportunity and bravery to channel some information for you all;. Listen. This is the Daughter WHITE THONG. Some minutes ago I received information on the entity called the Breast Collector. It means women no harm. The breasts are fake. It is a symbol or box of icons, meant to root this thing in the heart of the mother of nourishment. It vaguely recalls its moments with Mary, The mother of God. And wants to relive those moments, hence the box of breasts as a heart and lung. Organs of life. The thing escaped a tyrant soul called the Caviar Girl. She had kept it captive with a binding chain, which broke during the storm of the puppets. Since then, the breast collector has been transversing the GUTT, in search of milk. Its false tits would not offer it condolences or safety. It is in search of the sacred cow. Bells will be of aid to this spirit. If you do see the breast collector, do not hide from it as we have. Instead, ring a bell if you do have milk to offer. Directly from a teat would be best so a woman has to sacrifice. DO not be afraid. The milk, whatever little is offered, will help the Breast collector to move on. It will not steal your precious breast, O women of the GUTT. It will be grateful. And so what we fear is not fearful in itself. It is our lesson to learn that all monstrocities in the GUTT can be angels or may just require help, as we do. We should be thankful to the Gods that spirits like the breast collector has the option to move on. We cannot and must endure. But thankfully again, to the Gods of the Gutt, that surrealisme shall endure with us forever.

rainpocalypse virus rampage Prom night folk or wedding guests, lined up in the middle of the highway in the rain. Black night. Awaiting the phantom taxi to arrive. By pass the cars, in them the gas masked radioactive drivers sped. Blue jackets. Fear wild eyes. A side tunnel white light shelter. The man spoke to the garbage truck driver/collector. Asking silenced questions. No cab. The man stood near the mouth of the tunnel, the girls in black mini dresses soaked in the rain, a little frantic for cover, for a ride. O death, which art so near. By daylight the neighbors were all gone. No one in sight. The mutant virus kills, vanishes the flesh and bone. By a high story house, by the open door frame and gate. Two odd couples in the chairs rocked to and fro, mouth expunging blood. Convulse. Living dead. The escaped tagged along like frightful children, their butch mother looking for a house they could store themselves, away from the no one around, from the virus in the aire. The man had the key to a house in mid renovation. white mattresses the only true comfort. He led them into the safety. Outside the sunny summer was haunting a vacant world. The children were hiding. From what monster, no one could tell. No one could see. But there were monsters in the air. Hunters and huntresses. Where is the cure? Was there help? The man cannot answer. He leaves. His garbage friend is dead. He returns to the tunnel to wait for the rain, and for hotel guests or party goers to be soaked and desperate for radioactive taxis.

NULL MISSION PT 1 NULL was sweating in his PVC Nurses uniform. It was stained with cigarette ash and spittle. He sat with his legs open and up to his knees, back leaning against a wooden sodden wall. Smoking a stale cigarette. The woman was lying, eyes closed, in front of him. Head near his foot, that was squeezed into a red stiletto. His other foot was stroking her creamy shoulder. He sucked on his cigarette, let the smoke coagulate in the airless attic, lit by a flickering candle. Her eyes opened. Staring straight up. NULL waited. Then asked. "You all back?" She turned to him, straight-faced looking up his legs. She shook her head. Said slowly."Part of me is still with the stars." He spat bitterly."At least you've gone home awhile." Tortured. She watched him put out his cigarette on the floorboards. there was no more absinthe to drain. The bottle as good as a candle holder. Or piss container. "They want you to go into the GUTT." She said quickly. He shut his eyes. Bit his thumb nail. Twisted his ankle around to crack it. Scoffed. "they would't risk sending in another stable magician eh, darling?" She sat up. Concerned. naked. "you're the best one available right now." "Coz all the others are mad or dead." she crawled up to him, her beautiful face raptured before his. Ecstasy. "and you are already both. So it's alright." She kissed him, tasting the stale ash on his blue tongue. He drank down her life spit. Quivered. Erected. They made love before his departure.

ASH POET SYMMETRY Bundle the tobacco into wood pipe flick, fuck around with green lighter Oh! Sad come! O ! Peace pipe no work! Come on. There must be something to spike this bowl some green merchaya Some love drops. Jupiter is scarred. The giving king is injured. The wounded Healer is sitting across looking for tears and iodine! The full moon eclipses O ! Strange behavior in dog men! Weird thumping in the heart beware! It's an astrologically funny world Your planet is here to make you cry! because you not know it, you are a RAPIST! Children are screaming around the playground fun or frantic? The pitch is unknown. Birds of omen watch from lamp tops the hiding lizard licks its lips Stuff tobacco into hole light up! light up! we have no money for proper cigarettes our fickle careers have gone to waste. wash cars